


Of Wishes and Promises

by veryamedliel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 10:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryamedliel/pseuds/veryamedliel
Summary: Eight months. It had been eight months since Sherlock had laid his eyes on John. Eight months since he had been able to touch John. Eight torturous months, and Sherlock hated every minute of it. All he wanted, more than anything in the world was to tell John he loved him, and not just on a piece of paper in one of their many letters of correspondence, he wanted to say the words to John’s face. He wanted John to say the words back to him, and for John to take him in his arms and kiss him, only to never let go of him.





	Of Wishes and Promises

Eight months. It had been eight months since Sherlock had laid his eyes on John. Eight months since he had been able to touch John. Eight torturous months, and Sherlock hated every minute of it. All he wanted, more than anything in the world was to tell John he loved him, and not just on a piece of paper in one of their many letters of correspondence, he wanted to say the words to John’s face. He wanted John to say the words back to him, and for John to take him in his arms and kiss him, only to never let go of him. 

But it was only one of the few wishes Sherlock had made in his life, and it too would never come true. It was just like when he was a small child, wishing for Redbeard to get better, and when he wished for the other boys to stop beating him up in the boys locker room. He wasn't ever going to see John again, for he was gone. John Hamish Watson was dead.

He had only been informed earlier that morning, when he received a letter from the war office stating their condolences. Sherlock refused to believe it was true, but when he texted Mycroft and his elder brother refused to reply, he knew the answer. The only time Mycroft never replied to a question he asked, was when he already knew the answer. 

“Sherlock, are you there? Can you be a dear and open the door?” knocked Mrs. Hudson. Oh, was it tea time already? Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He rose from his seat, and reached for the locked door; when he had even locked it, he could not recall. But Sherlock hesitated, why would he need Mrs. Hudson’s company, when had he never needed anyone’s company? That is until, John of course. He wished he could always be in John’s company. “Sherlock, open this door!” Sherlock moved from his position by the door and retrieved his coat and scarf. He had to get away, he had to clear his head. He opened the door, and hurried down the stairs and onto the busy streets of London, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s shouts of protest.

It was now dark, and had started raining about two hours previous. Sherlock knew exactly where he was, but he desperately wished that he didn’t. Because it made no sense to his mind: if he knew exactly where he was, then why did he feel so lost? Wasn’t love supposed to be the best feeling in the world? Then why did it hurt him so much? Sherlock did not like not knowing the answer to any of his questions, or at least answers that made sense to him. John would probably be able to answer them, he could always count on his doctor. Even now, when he was… Sherlock could count on just his memories or thoughts of John to calm him down. Even if it was for just a few moments.

Sherlock was no stranger to the sensation of the tears running down his face, he had spent much of his childhood crying in the boys lavatory after another beating from the older boys. No matter what people thought, Sherlock was able to express human emotions, he just trained himself to cover the unnecessary physical reactions to how he felt. But all that training was beginning to dwindle away, as he continued to think about John. Why was it his doctor that was taken, and not another? Why did John have to be so bloody human? Why did he care so much about others? Why couldn’t John be more like him? Why, why, why!

Because John was better. He had always been a better man than Sherlock. He put others before himself, he looked out for the weak, and he made sure Sherlock wasn’t always a complete arse. John kept Sherlock grounded, from allowing him to lose himself to the temptation of the needle that had once been most comforting. But now that he was gone, Sherlock felt the temptation crashing on him like waves in the ocean. The horrible aching and rumbling of his stomach had once again returned from the dark depths of his memory. No. He couldn’t, he promised John… he promised. But what did that promise matter now? John had broken his, he hadn’t come back to him, and now he never would. 

Sherlock suddenly stopped, and turned back around. He knew where to go, he always made it his business to keep track of the best dealers within the city. And it was just his luck one was only a few blocks away. 

“Ha! Never thought I’d see ye here again, mate,” said the rough little old man, whose name he never bothered to remember.

“Hurry up. I have no time for idle chatter old man.”

“Oo, bein’ a bit nasty aren’t ye? What’s got you all in such a jiffy to see ye after so long?”

“I said…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Here you go, mate.” The old man held out the little white package, and his other hand extended, waiting for the money which was owed to him. Sherlock placed the money in the wrinkled, grimy hands and swiftly moved on, heading back to Baker Street. 

Sherlock was back in the confines of his bedroom, their bedroom, with the white package, a needle and a syringe ready and waiting for use. Sherlock had promised himself that he would never go back to these old habits, but the pain was too unbearable. He needed that freedom of his mind that he was granted when he was high. He needed that oblivion once more. And so he picked up the contents on the table, and let his old muscle memory return so he could allow himself to position the needle in his arm. He gently put the needle in place, right over the little white scars that John had taken pains to tell Sherlock he loved. That he loved them because they stood for the strength and courage Sherlock had shown when quitting. How disappointed would John be if he could see him now? It didn’t matter, it was not feasible anymore to think about what John would say. His opinion was now purposeless. 

No, that was not true. John’s opinion had always been, and would always be something Sherlock would seek out continuously and take to heart, because it was from someone he loved, and someone who loved him in return. Sherlock could feel the effects of the drugs already in his system. Everything began to slow down, and he could finally let go of everything he had been holding without any care in the world. That’s when he began to feel the slow trail of tears start to run down his narrow face. He let them run their course, after all, there was no one else to see his tears, because the one man who stopped them was now the reason for them. 

“Sherlock!” Ah. The drugs were already taking an even bigger toll on him then he was used to. “Sherlock!”

“J-John? Where… I need to see you.”

“Sherlock? What the hell- Sherlock, open the bloody door!”

“I’ve… I’ve been missing you… been gone so long… so long…”

“Dammit, Sherlock!”

“Gone… gone… forever…” Sherlock’s incoherent thoughts were interrupted by the breaking down of the door, so very John. Even his hallucinations of the doctor seemed to get the aggressiveness of the small man across in such detail, it surprised him. “Don’t go again. I don’t want… stay…”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed. The man came rushing over to Sherlock and held him close, and for the first time in eight months, Sherlock could clearly smell John’s scent. And it was marvelous, and so real, Sherlock couldn’t help but grab onto for dear life, hoping that he never came down from his high. “Sherlock, it’s okay. I’m back. It’s alright.”

“Don’t want you to go… don’t want to go down…. stay forever.” For the first time since entering the room, John seemed to notice what it was that Sherlock had done exactly.

“Sherlock, did you…? No, Sherlock, love, look at me,” the man commanded. Sherlock obeyed him, knowing what would come next. “Oh my God! You’re high! You’re bloody high!”

“Knew you’d be disappointed, sorry John… I couldn’t… you didn’t keep yours, so I broke mine. No one left to care anymore….”

“Sherlock, what do you mean? I’m here! I’m right here! I’ve come home.”

“No, you’re dead. Mycroft… he didn’t answer… You’re dead…”

“I’m not dead, Sherlock. I’m right here, where I’m supposed to be. Where I should’ve stayed. I swear!” John assured as he took Sherlock’s face into both of his hands, looking deep into his eyes, looking for some way to bring him out of his reverie. “Sherlock, look at me. I’m here. Right now, in Baker Street, in our room, with you. I’m with you!” Sherlock finally looked straight into his lover’s face, and felt a sudden jolt of awareness. He let a small smile come to his lips as he reached for John’s face.

“You’re here… you’re home… with me… with me…”

“Yes, you complete and utter idiot,” John replied. And with that, they sealed their lips with a long-awaited kiss.

The End.


End file.
